


holding my ground, upon a burial mound

by kornevable



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kornevable/pseuds/kornevable
Summary: Is it truly so admirable they are ready to go to such lengths to win? Is it foolishness to think they have a chance at survival?Dimitri is King of Faerghus, but the weight of the crown is heavy, slowly digging his grave at a leisurely pace.Waging a war implies being capable of choosing one's emotions carefully.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Rhea, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	holding my ground, upon a burial mound

**Author's Note:**

> A character study about Dimitri during Crimson Flower, canonical character deaths.

Dimitri doesn’t trust Archbishop Rhea’s forces.

Their joint efforts have yielded nothing but countless deaths and the loss of precious resources they could have spent more wisely. Faerghus’s lands aren’t as bountiful as Adrestia, and the fall of Garreg Mach carved a hole in the Knights of Seiros’s composure. Dimitri truly doesn’t believe following Rhea’s orders will be beneficial for his kingdom.

He doesn’t say as much, though. He keeps an eye on her, and on his army; if they sense there is the slightest tremor in his voice or the beginning of his hesitancy, it will wreck havoc upon their morale and the organization of their troops. He can’t let them suspect he’d rather fight this war on his own terms.

Fhirdiad Castle, sturdy and cold, will most likely keep becoming emptier as the days pass. It’s a miracle the number of deserters hasn’t spiked up in the last months, when the Empire’s assaults have taken a more aggressive tone—the fact they will easily be tracked down or reported, given their meager army, certainly played into their decision to stay. Dedue says they nonetheless remain loyal to the Kingdom, as citizens of Faerghus willing to fight for their freedom.

Is it truly so admirable they are ready to go to such lengths to win? Is it foolishness to think they have a chance at survival?

Dimitri is King of Faerghus, but the weight of the crown is heavy, slowly digging his grave at a leisurely pace.

“The Professor?”

“Yes, reports say that someone wielding a glowing sword is leading the Imperial army,” Dedue says calmly. “The Professor is the only one who came to mind.”

Of course. If someone was able to come back from the dead, it was the Professor. They were always shrouded in mysteries, but their aura was so entrancing that Dimitri often forgot they were a skilled mercenary whose survival instinct has been honed since birth. This makes things more complicated and less predictable, now, to Dimitri’s growing worry.

“I suppose it is no use sending more scouts and spies near the Empire,” he sighs.

“We cannot afford depriving the Kingdom of more soldiers,” Dedue confirms. “We can only pray that those who are already on the field will fulfill their mission until the end.”

Duty. Duty alone is bounding them to this earth, fighting tirelessly and seeking a ray of light that will show them the right path to follow. Dimitri will not let them down; his lance was crafted to protect and repel the enemy, so he can’t let his feelings overshadow his responsibility.

“I don’t like this.”

Dimitri’s hand freezes mid-bite as Sylvain’s stare bores holes into his skull. Sylvain usually doesn’t look that distracted during meal times, when everyone can see him under a light that’s not his philandering.

“What matter troubles you, Sylvain?”

“I’m talking about Lady Rhea,” Sylvain whispers, glancing around.

Dimitri knows that the Knights of Seiros don’t eat dinner with them and prefer staying in their own group, but it never hurts to check. He feels more than sees Ingrid kicking Sylvain under the table, and judging by the low hiss, it must have been an accurate strike on his calf.

“Don’t throw such dangerous words around like that,” she admonishes, frowning. “People are going to think you don’t want them here.”

“That wouldn’t be too far from the truth,” Sylvain snorts, shaking his head.

Felix has his arms crossed over his chest, having finished eating long before them, but staying at the table for a reason that probably involves avoiding Rodrigue. Felix is more willing to stay longer when Sylvain and Ingrid are present; Dimitri is grateful for each precious minute he gets with his friends, however fickle and illusory the feeling is.

“What did Ingrid just say,” Felix mutters.

“Alright, Your Majesty, I think we should be more cautious about the orders we receive and give,” Sylvain says with insistence. “I know that the Church should be protected, because of our traditions and the way we hold the Goddess above everything else, but... I don’t know. Something feels wrong.”

“Something feels wrong,” Dimitri repeats, testing the words in his mouth.

“Yeah. I can’t tell you what exactly, but trusting Lady Rhea wholeheartedly probably isn’t the right decision.”

Dimitri scrutinizes his friends’ faces; Ingrid is biting her lips, like she is refraining from making a comment that will upset Dimitri, while Felix looks murderous, but not at Dimitri this time. Sylvain has dropped all pretenses of being a fool unable to come up with sensible plans, looking at Dimitri like he truly wants to be taken seriously. It’s rare to see him so earnest.

“Lady Rhea provides us with good counsel and lends us her troops,” he points out.

“Yes, because she doesn’t want to die,” Sylvain replies with a shrug. “There aren’t enough Knights of Seiros to protect her if the Empire decides to attack. It’s much more convenient to use the Kingdom soldiers as a shield.”

“I think you are seeing evil where it isn’t warranted,” Ingrid says. “Aren’t we all fighting in the same war?”

Felix turns a sharp eye towards Ingrid.

“Not everyone wants to do good. Some people have their own motives.”

Dimitri has to admit he’s confused, but not completely disturbed by what he’s hearing. Lady Rhea, through her carefully maintained image of a compassionate figurehead, never strikes as someone who would use her institution for personal gain. People trust her and don’t think twice about the reasoning behind her decisions beyond the fact she’s the authority. However, Sylvain and Ingrid wouldn’t be having an argument about such a controversial topic if it weren’t important to their eyes, like Sylvain’s fingers brushed against a chest of information he shouldn’t be touching.

Dimitri is confused because he thought he was the only distrusting the Church and what they could bring to the Kingdom. Maybe Sylvain isn’t as accusatory as Dimitri is in his own head, but his suspicions aren’t baseless.

“I will think about it,” he settles on saying, though no relief washes over his friends’ faces.

Dedue accompanies Dimitri everywhere he goes, when they’re not within the walls of Fhirdiad Castle. He is here to protect him and to offer advice when Dimitri is faced with a problem—Dimitri appreciates greatly his company, though he wishes their relationship weren’t so anchored in one of servitude.

“Your Majesty, I think it wise to tell you what I discovered,” Dedue says gravely.

They are visiting the central place, where the market is still bustling with activity despite their poor crops and the dwindling food they receive from the Alliance. It isn’t the best location to have a conversation about military tactics, but if Dedue didn’t bring up the subject before, it must be of capital importance.

Dimitri nods, knowing that nobody would dare approach them too close. Rodrigue told him that the people would feel safer if they saw the King walking among them—that way he can see the situation his nation is living in.

“What happened to Miklan Gautier and to those Imperial soldiers is not an isolated case,” Dedue whispers, his voice on a forced, flat tone. “The Church may be hiding more Crest stones than we anticipated.”

Dimitri stares at his friend. Dedue’s gaze is unflinching, delivering the news with practiced neutrality despite the harrowing implications they bring. He trusts Dimitri with this piece of information, like he is certain Dimitri will make the right decision.

Are they so desperate they would resort to such inhuman tactics to win a war?

“I would never approve of using Crest stones and make such senseless sacrifices,” Dimitri assures, the weight inside his stomach dropping even lower. “Our knights deserve to fight and to die as people. Not mindless beasts.”

The back of his head prickles. It’s as if someone doused him in freezing water, and he’s unable to shake it off, to make the awful feeling of dread vanish.

Beasts crave for blood and massacre.

Dedue hums, a thin smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Of course. I knew this would be your answer, Your Majesty.”

Dedue sounds confident and relieved. The realizations that hit Dimitri about himself leaves him in the opposite state of mind.

Felix visibly recoils when his training sword snaps in half, forcing him to take a step back and get out of harm’s way, the tip of the lance mere centimeters away from his chest. He scowls and gestures wildly to the remains of the sword scattered on the floor.

“Are you serious, boar? Don’t you think we’re already low on resources?”

Dimitri lowers his lance, glancing quickly at the consequences of his carelessness, and sighs.

“I apologize, I was lost in thoughts.”

They don’t know what happened to Claude. Some reports say he escaped, others claim that Edelgard struck him down. The Empire is advancing more rapidly than they thought, and the Leicester Alliance has already been reduced to a mess of squeaking and outraged nobles. It is only a matter of time before they reach the borders of Faerghus.

“I hope you’re not going to be this scatterbrained when you’ll be facing the Emperor,” Felix snaps. “But you’re a mindless beast, so you’ll probably try to kill her as soon as you see her.”

Dimitri’s fingers curl around his lance, and he stays silent. He’s had only one objective since the beginning of the war, and that won’t change anytime soon; ripping Edelgard’s head off her shoulders is the only way to end this senseless fighting, and to appease the dead. She’s the source of their tragedy, and she continues fueling their suffering by shedding so much blood—Dimitri hopes she won’t ever be able to wash away the blood on her hands and the rot in her heart.

He jolts when suddenly the wood splinters and he’s left with one half of the lance, the metal tip clattering on the floor, and he blinks stupidly at his fingers as Felix throws his hands up in the air.

“Great. Just great. Control your damn strength, boar.”

“I think His Majesty needs a break, Felix,” Sylvain interrupts, dropping a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder.

Sylvain grins at him, all teeth and no pretense, but his eyes aren’t the reflection of his usual mischief. He’s looking at Dimitri like he’s expecting a biting remark, or a sign he should be more concerned about the situation, but the solid weight of his warm hand is more grounding than Dimitri thought it would be.

“A break for what? To brood and waste his time?” Felix says.

“Felix, that’s enough,” Dimitri finally groans, bringing a hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I know we don’t have the luxury to break weapons as I just did. I will be more careful from now on.”

Felix doesn’t let it go. “If you could pay attention and categorize your priorities—”

“Let’s grab something to eat, it’s past lunchtime.” Sylvain’s grip is tighter and he tugs Dimitri along with him towards the exit.

Felix growls something unintelligible, but doesn’t protest. Sylvain smiles at Dimitri, a little more genuine and a little more comforting, but the crease in his brow never fades. Dimitri wishes he could gather all the people he cherishes in one room and never let them wither away.

Ingrid is fidgeting in her seat, her fingers twitching around her cup of tea. Dimitri has to suppress an amused smile as Rodrigue gently chides her.

“Ingrid, stop fretting. We won’t find solutions if we let our emotions get in the way of our thinking.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Ingrid says. “But don’t you think that it’s becoming... more urgent to retaliate?”

Dimitri glances in Rhea’s direction, who is sitting ramrod straight in her chair, eyes blazing with concealed fury that Dimitri knows too well.

“We lost many trusted generals in that assault on Garreg Mach,” Rhea concedes. “The enemy must have changed tactics, with the return of... the Professor.”

There is a dark, almost repulsed layer coating Rhea’s words, like she is spitting the world’s venom. She hasn’t been herself ever since they caught sight of the Professor, muttering curses under her breath when she thinks nobody is around, and casting her gaze towards the sky as if she could summon the Goddess’s judgment. Dimitri has seen Rhea praying more and more, as the days passed and nothing changed. Even if he believes the Goddess could bestow them a bit of strength and bravery, he doubts it will be enough to stop the disaster bound to happen.

Rodrigue nods, ever the collected and wise general that advised the King. He doesn’t lose his composure; he stays calm and directs the meetings so as to minimize the number of fruitless debates and unnecessary fits of anger, always looking for his liege’s approval to carry on the discussion. Dimitri doesn’t know if he could have gone so far without Rodrigue’s support, and he doesn’t want to think about the what-ifs.

“We will have to mobilize as many soldiers as we can, and assign them specific locations to defend,” he states. “If we can secure these spots, it will be easier to prepare our next attack on their army.”

“We don’t have enough resources to hold a siege,” Dimitri points out. “The harvests have been as terrible as the years previous, and Fhirdiad’s coffers cannot sustain the entire Kingdom.”

Rodrigue brought funds from Fraldarius, and a smaller amount from Gautier, for their army to acquire better weapons and horses. While the people are starving, they’re counting every coin they possess to equip their knights as best as they can, to put all chances on their side. As if a sturdier armor or a faster horse will grant them the opportunity to make a breakthrough and make them forget their hunger.

They’re reduced to grasping at straws. The Knights of Seiros look better off, but their numbers are even lower than the Kingdom forces, and Dimitri isn’t going to fully rely on them to win—not when Rhea looks at a goal that even he cannot see.

“This is why we need to ensure our victory at these strategic points,” Rodrigue answers.

“The Fortress City of Arianrhod,” Ingrid states. “The Imperial army won’t risk crossing the Valley of Torment to get into Faerghus.”

“Yes, and they most likely think that conquering the Silver Maiden will give them an edge in the war.”

“Then let’s make preparations to defend Arianrhod,” Dimitri concludes. “We should send reinforcements to Charon, in case the Empire decides to split their forces.”

Dimitri turns to Rhea and nods at her.

“Archbishop Rhea, would you lend your forces once more and help in Charon?”

“This is a sound decision”, Rhea agrees. “May the Goddess bless us.”

Dimitri dips his head. “May the Goddess bless us.”

Dimitri stares at the vast plane of blue sky, lying on his back in the gardens of the castle, hands joined together on his stomach. If Rodrigue saw him display such inappropriate behavior, there is no doubt he would scold him, his face twisted in that unpleasant frown that never fails to make Dimitri feel he’s ten years old again, caught red-handed climbing trees with Felix when he was supposed to be practicing his oration skills. The sky is still as blue as he remembers, unchanging and unforgettable, even when the threat looming over them is dark and casting a shadow they can’t catch up to.

The sky will forever hang over them but Dimitri is now King, and a King cares for his people before anything else. He’s been taught this since he was a child—listen to the people’s needs, comfort your people, become a model the people will speak about for generations. A Kingdom without a people has no value.

Caring for his people is not the sole reason driving him forward. Ensuring his people’s survival never left his mind—but the more rotten, depraved part of himself sparks a mad passion within him, and he cannot let the wails of justice and rest go unheard.

It’s a selfish objective built on the quest of fulfilling his loved ones’ desires. The dead demand their tribute, and Dimitri is more than willing to sacrifice himself entirely to this endeavor.

The chapel in Fhirdiad Castle is pristine, spotless and crowded with believers every day. Dimitri steps inside and finds Rhea praying, once again, in front of an intricate and delicate statue of what is supposed to be the Goddess. A veil covers her head and falls a bit on her forehead, but the expression on her face can only be described as benevolent and kind. Dimitri has looked at this statue of the Goddess since he was a child.

Rhea finishes her prayer, then slowly turns around to face Dimitri. She hasn’t been smiling ever since the start of the war. Her face grows tight and less inviting with each passing day, like she’s revealing a side of her that’s bursting at the seams of her façade. Dimitri knows a thing or two about masks—Rhea’s is more subtle, less easy to decipher, hiding countless secrets that Dimitri can’t dig out.

“Have you come to pray, King Dimitri?” Rhea asks.

“I must admit I haven’t prayed the Goddess in a long time,” Dimitri confides, gazing up at the statue. “Obtaining Her guidance would be wonderful, but I feel that we have to rely on ourselves, now.”

He used to be in awe whenever he stepped into the chapel to pray and to ask for prosperity and good health for the Kingdom. The current situation makes him unable to believe in a superior entity to help them stop an irrational war that has already claimed too many lives. If the Goddess truly wished it, She could have tipped the balance in their favor much earlier, instead of letting them trudge through an uncertain path leaving all these corpses behind.

Rhea, unsurprisingly, doesn’t look pleased with his answer. Dimitri remembers her saying that believing in the Goddess wasn’t a requirement to attend Garreg Mach—but having a comforting presence such as Hers, thinking that they weren’t alone in their hardships, would be a push to move forward and not to give up. Everybody’s faith is different, though. Perhaps Dimitri lost his faith a long time ago.

“The Goddess cannot give a simple and a single answer to our troubles,” Rhea says. “She can only offer us counsel and comfort. She is watching over us, so that when the time comes, She will know we did everything to live as our hearts told us.”

How many times did Rhea say these words? Does she believe in them as ardently as she is preaching them? It’s not Dimitri’s place to judge someone’s faith, but he can’t stop wondering where all this hatred and indignation stem from. Rhea speaks as if the war itself is a stain on the Goddess’s name. The nails of her fingers are digging into her flesh, when she clasps her hands over her stomach. Her voice isn’t as smooth and calming as it used to be, and when she looks at Dimitri, her resolve seems to steel over.

Dimitri might not trust Rhea, but he needs her power and the support she can give him. Anything to win.

“It’s reassuring,” Dimitri replies. “I will perhaps start praying again, when I truly have reached the darkest place I could be in during the war.”

“When all hope seems lost, turning towards the Goddess is never foolish. We must protect Her and the Church, King Dimitri. I am counting on you.”

Dimitri offers her a small smile, nodding slowly.

“And I you, Archbishop.”

Felix doesn’t look him in the eye.

“I thought you agreed to this.”

The words stay lodged in Dimitri’s throat. It opens and closes, useless, not uttering a single sound.

“The old man will lead the charge. I’ll go with him.”

“Why?”

Dimitri doesn’t recognize his voice. It’s plaintive, weak and so, so uncertain, like it belongs to someone of a past that shouldn’t be disturbed. The word scratches against his throat, climbing its length in a tedious manner that is excruciatingly slow. Felix still doesn’t look at him.

“Rodrigue didn’t tell me he would go...”

“He doesn’t need to tell you all the decisions he’s making,” Felix says. “He’s commanding the whole army. He probably knows more than you about how we should move our troops.”

Arianrhod has never fallen, ever since it was erected. The fortress is built to defend against invasions—the walls won’t crumble under the weight of a heavy assault, but a capable and resourceful general has to be in charge. Dimitri trusts Rodrigue, but the uneasiness crawling in his stomach is hard to dismiss.

And Felix is going, too. Felix, who hates fighting alongside his father, will defend Faerghus in what is most likely the last battlefield before the war comes at Fhirdiad’s gates.

“We have many battalions left and other competent generals, I should go review who is suitable—”

“Boar.”

Felix’s tone is flat, though almost pained; the usual venom is absent, replaced by something more vulnerable, so uncharacteristic of Felix that Dimitri is forced to stare at him, uncomprehending. The lines of Felix’s jaw are tense, like he’s holding himself back from lunging at his King and tearing his throat out for saying yet again nonsensical words.

“You can’t win a war by hesitating,” Felix tells him in a low voice. “One wrong move and we’re doomed. We lost countless soldiers, and people are growing tired, you must have noticed.”

Dimitri has noticed every ebb and flow of his army since the start of the stalemate, agonizing over the dwindling number of people still believing in him and the corpses piling up under his orders.

“If we don’t keep Arianrhod, we might as well have lost.” Felix’s words ring cruel and irrevocable. “The Empire will have a foot into Faerghus and it will go downhill from there.”

Then Felix lifts his eyes to look back at Dimitri, not at the general direction of his face but directly into his eyes. Felix hates eye contact, Dimitri remembers distantly—when was the last time they had a conversation where they properly looked at each other? Felix’s eyes burn with an iron will that seems to never waver, despite the grim circumstances ensnaring them.

“That’s why my old man wants to go defend Arianrhod. I’m going because he can’t win alone.”

When it is battle-related, nothing that comes out of Felix’s mouth is carelessly thrown up in the air. Dimitri suddenly can’t bear looking at the earnest glint in Felix’s gaze, and has to wrench his away.

“I am not so naive I have to be reminded of what a war entails,” Dimitri feebly grunts.

“Then stop moping around and start acting like the King you’re supposed to be,” Felix snaps, recovering all the iciness that coats his voice.

The root of the issue is here; Dimitri bears a title dictating his every move. His desires pull him in a direction that his duty condemns—emotions, for a knight of Faerghus, should be discarded lest they commit mistakes they will regret later. Rodrigue is so much better at compartmentalizing his feelings and setting his priorities in the right order; Dimitri wishes he had the same unshakable belief.

Felix is unrelenting. His piercing eyes are conveying years of unspoken words and accumulated disgust, bursting open and spilling all around him in an undistinguishable mess of emotions. Dimitri doesn’t remember if he ever witnessed Felix’s unguarded face in the last eight years.

“Edelgard…,” Dimitri mutters. “I must kill her.”

Dimitri’s reflexes are quick, but Felix has always been faster than him. Felix surges forward and grabs his shoulder, snarling, getting into Dimitri’s space and maintaining this soul-searing eye contact that burns the both of them.

“I know you’re a beast and that you only wish for slaughter,” Felix growls. “I’m asking you to stay back so that we can seize victory by crushing their main forces at Arianrhod. We don’t know if Edelgard will be there but if she is, she will die, whether you are present or not.”

Iron will. Felix is driven and focused on a single objective, much like Dimitri himself—their ultimate goal is the same, but their ways of proceeding are different. It’s almost laughable, how their false composure is exactly what they hate the most.

“You cannot fail,” Dimitri says, pleading.

Felix’s grip on his shoulder relaxes, and seems to realize what he’s done as he jerks away, finally turning his gaze towards something that’s not Dimitri’s face. It lasted much longer than what Dimitri expected.

“Failure isn’t an acceptable answer to any battles,” Felix says. “I will cut everyone standing in my path.”

He doesn’t spare another glance in Dimitri’s direction before leaving, his resounding steps louder than what they should be. Felix’s touch lingers on Dimitri’s shoulder, tingling and aching, leaving a trace of the strength Felix wants to show. A harsh and cutting grip, snatching its target’s attention and trying to convey what words cannot.

Dimitri closes his eyes just as the void in his chest opens up.

The preparations to defend Arianrhod and to send support to Charon are chaotic. Dimitri watches from afar as knights and squires rush from one end of the castle to another to pack their supplies and to bring various pieces of equipment. Rodrigue gives him a detailed report of how many men he will lead, the number of weapons and armors that they took, and when the next convoy of supplies and men from Fraldarius will arrive. There are even notes about Fhirdiad’s defense mechanism and warnings about the weaknesses that they will have to fix if they were to use this strange technology.

The neat writing of Rodrigue stares back at Dimitri, precise and blackening every corner of each page. Dimitri brings up a wary hand to rub his temples, and he sends a distressed look at Rodrigue. The Duke gives him a pained smile.

“I know what it looks like, Your Majesty. These are simply precautions.”

“You went out of your way to write such detailed reports as a _precaution_.”

Rodrigue sighs. “Please do not let your emotions take control of you. We have to be prepared for the worst.”

“I am not sending you and your troops to Arianrhod to die—!”

“Dimitri.”

Rodrigue, much like what Felix did a few days prior, grabs Dimitri’s shoulder. His touch, however, is gentle, placating, like he’s approaching a scared animal that will bolt as soon as it can. Dimitri lifts his eyes to stare at the determined face of the man who swore to protect the crown until his last breath.

“We are not going to Arianrhod with the idea of dying in mind. We are going to Arianrhod to push back the Imperial forces, and if it is death that awaits us, then this will be how we offer our lives to our country.”

Such a simple statement—duty. They are knights who will sacrifice themselves for Faerghus. Dimitri is a man who seeks vengeance, but cannot allow people close to him to fall.

“It is how war is waged, Your Majesty,” Rodrigue continues with a tone of finality, his fingers tightening on Dimitri’s shoulder. “As the Shield of Faerghus, I am ready to put my life in danger to protect what I hold dear to my heart.”

“I understand what you mean,” Dimitri answers weakly. “I don’t have to like it.”

Rodrigue lets out a short and fond laugh. “No, you don’t. It is a difficult position you are in, but I have faith in you. You will make the right choices, as the King.”

The knights are calling for Rodrigue’s help on some logistics. Dimitri covers Rodrigue’s hand with his own, and squeezes once. His hand used to be so small compared to Rodrigue’s, who always put his hand on his shoulder to guide him, or ruffled his hair when he obtained excellent results after lance training.

The man who was a second father to him smiles and nods at him, before letting him go.

Ingrid finds him the night before they depart.

“You’re leaving too?” comes Dimitri’s broken question.

The pain he feels must have been clear as crystal in his eyes, because Ingrid flinches and wrenches her gaze away. Ingrid is a proud and righteous knight—she wouldn’t ever allow herself to drop her gaze or to show how affected she is by her King’s words. She isn’t here as a knight tonight, but as a friend. The empty void in Dimitri feels deeper and deeper, ripping off parts of him and devouring them.

“Lord Rodrigue made it clear that this battle will be decisive,” Ingrid answers confidently. “We need as many people there as possible to stop the Empire and defend our home.”

She’s placing her arms behind her back, and she’s looking at Dimitri now, eyes blazing with the same iron will as Felix’s. Ingrid’s resolve might be even stronger, unwavering and steadfast as her principles and her beliefs make her move forward without fail. She’s one of the strongest people Dimitri knows.

“I will go. I will assist Lord Rodrigue and Felix, and we will ensure that the soldiers of Faerghus are not seen as weaklings or cowards.”

Maybe the worst in this war is that Dimitri understands. He understands what pushes people into displaying grand acts of bravery, whether be it the desire to protect a home or to leave a mark in this shattered world.

It’s the Faerghus way. It’s the Faerghus values—courage, loyalty, determination. They have all grown up with these values instilled inside them, flowing into their veins like it is proof they are living the right way. It is what makes them powerful.

Dimitri chokes on his words, lifting a hand without knowing what to do with it, and ends up letting it fall back against his thigh. His throat feels uncooperative, obstructed with unwanted and messy agony.

“This isn’t what I wanted.”

Ingrid attempts a soft smile, but even her face is twisted in affliction.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. This is what we have to do. What we _want_ to do.”

Dimitri meets her gaze; aching blue against steel green.

“For Faerghus’s victory,” Ingrid adds, like a prayer.

The words echo from one heart to another.

“For Faerghus’s victory.”

Sylvain claps him on the back, propriety be damned, and drags him towards the council room. Dedue is always following close, and when he opens the door of the room, Dimitri is expecting to see his advisors. Instead, he’s greeted with Mercedes’s kind eyes.

“Dimitri.”

Her lips are curled in a comforting smile, and Dimitri can only mirror the gesture.

“Annie and Dedue were telling me about the war effort. You know I am not much of a fighter, but I thought I should go on the battlefield as a medic.”

“What about your adoptive father and your trade in the city?” Sylvain asks, sounding just as surprised as Dimitri.

“It’s taken care of. I cannot sit idle while I know that my friends are risking their lives to end this war.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Mercedes,” Dimitri says as he steps forward. “I’m not asking any of you to give your life for this war.”

Dimitri hasn’t spoken to Mercedes in person in months, probably closer to a year, but she always manages to see right through him. She has that uncanny ability to make people drop their guard around her.

“Other people must have already told you that this is how they chose to live, Dimitri.”

Her words are gentle, but firm. Nothing will make her change her mind. Sylvain subtly nods, though the tense line of his jaw tells Dimitri that there is something he wants to add. Dedue turns towards Dimitri as well and doesn’t hide his honesty.

“We will follow you, Your Majesty.”

A circle of devoted friends, ready to fight to see their dreams and their convictions become reality.

Some time later, when no word still has been sent from Arianrhod, Ashe and Annette arrive at Fhirdiad, tired and looking worse for wear. They scramble to get off their horses and to greet Dimitri, their words lumped together like they’re attempting to get them out before they disappear.

“The Empire marched on the territory of Rowe as well,” Ashe informs them, shaking his head. “We escaped and tried to gather as many people as we could, but…”

“My uncle told me that he will cooperate to keep everyone safe,” Annette adds. “It’s… it’s not how we expected things to go.”

Dimitri exhales through his nose. If that isn’t the understatement of the year.

“Thank you for coming so fast. I’m glad you are unharmed.”

“My father is still here, right?” Annette asks with a tinge of hope. “I’ll fight until the end. We’ll defend Fhirdiad.”

She shares a look with Ashe, a silent communication passing between them as they nod before looking back at Dimitri. Their eyes are shining with the glimmer of perseverance and compassion of people that are too good.

But everybody is trying in their own way to make a difference—Dimitri can’t strip them of this right.

The day has gone in a blur. The castle is much quieter, overtaken by the neverending feeling of doom stretching everyone thin, forcing them to keep going even if the road ahead is shrouded in darkness. Dimitri remembers little of what he did during the day.

“You know,” Sylvain starts casually, dropping on the ground next to him, needlessly loud, “I had a feeling it would end like this.”

On nights slumber doesn’t claim him, Dimitri lies down on the ground in the gardens to gaze at the stars, feeling the cold biting his skin and the wind ruffling his hair. Sylvain must have similar habits. It usually brings Dimitri peace—tonight, he’s only a shell of himself.

“It’s like gambling. You have half a chance to win and get the big prize, but if you lose, you’re left with nothing but misery. Not to say that I gambled like an idiot and lost all my money, but there was one time I came pretty close to it, and let’s say that it was much more pleasant than the shitty situation we are in.”

Dimitri observes Sylvain’s profile. His hair is disheveled, like he sprang out of bed and directly came into the gardens, and his face is drawn in a tight grimace, keeping the emotions from spilling out. He’s also not looking at Dimitri.

“Stuff happens and hits you in the face in the worst ways possible. I don’t even fucking know what I’m currently feeling.”

Sylvain puts his hands on the ground and leans backwards, staring at the sky. A humorless laugh passes through his lips, uncontrollable and slightly terrifying, and Dimitri finds himself hating that sound. But he’s also hating everything that’s happening.

“Did you know that Ingrid asked me to stay behind to protect you? Even Felix said there was no need for me to go to Arianrhod with them. Fucking assholes.”

The blood in Dimitri’s veins boils. It doesn’t freeze and stop circulating, like it usually would when he’s faced with a terrible dilemma; it doesn’t make him feel like he can’t climb his way up from the pit he’s fallen in.

It’s pure rage and desperation, simmering in his heart and spreading all over his body, sharpening claws and fangs that will only rip his enemy’s head off their shoulders.

“I said there was a higher chance that they die defending the Fortress than come back alive,” Sylvain chokes out, his fists curling into the grass. “They told me that they knew.”

Dimitri doesn’t remember what he did after the messenger delivered the news from Arianrhod—he only knows that the destroyed gear and shattered weapons in the training grounds are the work of a single man uncaring of the strength he uses. Sylvain is avoiding looking at him and prefers spitting angry words instead of addressing the fact that Dimitri let them go to their death.

Rodrigue’s last words to him come back to mind, but they feel so cheap and insignificant in the face of the hollowness engulfing him. Clinging to every shred of hope appears futile after suffering such a loss.

“We don’t have much of a choice left,” Dimitri whispers, closing his eyes.

He hears Sylvain shifting, getting closer to him.

“They’re gone. Rodrigue, Felix, Ingrid. They’re gone.”

Sylvain sighs heavily, the full weight of his sorrow shaping his next words. “Yeah. That was their decision.”

How much are they still willing to sacrifice? Does it carry any meaning at all, if in the end, nobody is left to admire the fruit of their labor?

“Don’t leave me like they did, Sylvain.”

Tortuously, Dimitri opens his eyes. Sylvain is peering at him, his lips not stretched in the practiced grin he favors but in a more sincere, broken smile that is enough to fill Dimitri with a little bit of comfort.

“I won’t. I’ll stay with you until the end, Your Majesty.” He pauses, his smile becoming wider and more familiar. “And you know I’m not the only one who will stay. You’re not alone.”

Dimitri allows himself a chuckle, as fragile as it is.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me. I am blessed to have you all by my side.”

“Having the option to choose how to live and die is more than I can hope for.”

Sylvain’s eyes gleam with an inscrutable boldness. It doesn’t quite light up his face or wash away his exhaustion, but it’s the clearest he’s been in the past few weeks. Dimitri doesn’t want to ponder on the implications, and will simply be content with the knowledge that standing up for their values will carry them through the most crazed endeavors.

All the knights who have fallen at Arianrhod will be remembered in Dimitri’s heart. They don’t have the time or the resources to build a memorial for all the lives that were stolen in this war. Rhea is proposing plans to strengthen Fhirdiad’s army and set up a strategy with multiple levels of defense to buy time.

“No,” Dimitri objects. “I will lead an army and wait for the Empire at the Tailtean Plains.”

Sylvain, true to his words, stays with him at all times now, alongside Dedue; he casts him a wary glance that Dedue mirrors. Rhea simply turns her eyes to scrutinize Dimitri, lifting a delicate eyebrow.

“Are you certain that, as the King, it is wise to intercept them yourself?”

“We lack the resources and the equipment to maintain a siege in Fhirdiad. It would be foolish to think we could win the war with a battle of endurance.”

He shakes his head, achingly aware of the suffering of his people. There is nothing he can do to alleviate their pain, as the soldiers themselves are not fed enough to fight in optimal conditions.

“The Tailtean Plains will be the last battle before they reach the capital.”

“I will follow your command, Your Majesty,” Dedue says.

“The terrain will be favorable for a battle of this scale,” Sylvain adds.

Dimitri nods at his two trusted friends, relieved to have them at his side at such a critical time.

“Will you join the battle as well, Archbishop?” he asks, calmly observing Rhea.

The Archbishop’s face twists into something at first unpleasant, then it smooths into an expression of understanding before she smiles, as benevolent as ever.

“Naturally. The faster we rid the world of this menace, the better it is for everyone.”

“Please position your forces so as to flank them when the time comes,” Dimitri instructs, gesturing to the map they have on the desk. “They cannot focus on two armies at the same time if we take them by surprise.”

The thick bushes and the river crossing the plains will be an obstacle for all parties involved, but at least the Kingdom soldiers know these plains well enough to navigate through its unpredictable terrain. They will take full advantage of their defensive stance to strike in the most efficient way.

Whether they win or lose at the Tailtean Plains, it will be the King of Faerghus’s last battle.

“...insane! You can’t do that!”

“It is the path I have chosen. Many soldiers accepted as well.”

“I don’t fucking care about other people! Why would you do something that will only—”

Sylvain abruptly stops his tirade as soon as he sees Dimitri approaching them, quickly schooling his features into a more neutral expression, lifting a hand as a greeting.

“Ah, hello Your Majesty.”

Sylvain grins while Deude turns around to bow. The both of them look at Dimitri like they’re trying not to show they’re pushing down the remaining bits of a conversation that was getting too heated for two comrades sharing the same goals. Dimitri stares at them.

“Were the two of you arguing in front of the armory?”

“No, absolutely not!” Sylvain answers immediately, waving a dismissive hand. “Dedue was telling me about this technique that’s really not suited for combat, so I was maybe getting too incensed telling him not to use it.”

Dedue remains silent, even when Dimitri tries to convey through his eyes that he wants to hear his answer as well. Dedue will never lie to him.

“Don’t worry, Your Majesty, we’re just getting ready for the battle,” Sylvain continues. “There should be enough weapons left for the soldiers in Fhirdiad in our absence... well, that won’t be an issue in the scenario where we defeat the Empire at the Tailtean Plains.”

Dimitri focuses back on Sylvain. “Do you have doubts about our chance at victory?”

“Eh. Let’s say I prefer not to be too optimistic.”

Sylvain is right—they don’t know if they can defeat the Imperial army, when even the forces that had the Shield of Faerghus with them were mercilessly crushed. The loss of Arianrhod made a dent in their confidence, but Dimitri can’t allow himself to believe they will only meet a dead end.

They are already so deep into this hell. They have sacrificed so much for so little gains; the dead haven’t been avenged and the Emperor is still wrecking havoc all over Fódlan. The least they could do before leaving this earth is to fulfill their objective.

“It would be wise to be prudent, yes. However, we need to believe in our victory. Faerghus hasn’t put down its weapons yet, and we will fight until the land is drenched in the Empire’s blood.”

He doesn’t know whether his words have reached Sylvain, or if they had any impact on his doubts, but it seems that they are sufficient for now. Sylvain doesn’t further press the topic, though his face remains painstakingly detached. Both he and Dedue simply fall into step with Dimitri when he heads towards the stables, despite the fact they have done nothing to abate the tension permeating the air.

It’s a thick and suffocating blanket wrapped around them, heavy and dragging them down wherever they go. The prospect of ending a war shouldn’t feel so crushing. It feels like they are digging their own graves instead of their enemies’—and yet, here they are, marching towards a bleak future.

It rains. The Tailtean Plains are shedding tears.

Rhea told him that it was the Goddess’s sorrow, for She doesn’t want to see more bloodshed than necessary, and that it’s a sign they should make quick work of their enemies. Dimitri likes to think this is simply another challenge for them to overcome, another personal punishment for him. The fog and the rain are there to confuse him and to make coordination difficult.

No matter. This is what was placed in his path—he’s not one to run away. The blue flag of Faerghus is flying, shining like a beacon of hope for all these soldiers who will fight until they bleed and break, for their country’s honor and victory. He should have introduced himself and declared the beginning of the battle like a true King should do, but Edelgard doesn’t deserve such courtesy. His worth will be measured through this battle.

Sylvain’s horse comes to a halt next to him, splashing water on everyone’s boots. The Lance of Ruin glows menacingly in the darkness of the rain, echoing Areadhar’s equally dangerous aura that is however an anchor to everyone else. Dimitri glances at his friend.

“Why are you not at your position yet?”

Sylvain gives him one of these empty smiles, full of non-existent reassurance, abiding by what is expected of him to do. Like smiling is what he’s known for in any kind of situation, even when Dimitri hasn’t been expecting him to be acting like a fool pretending to be satisfied with their circumstances.

“You have to know that I’m here for you until the end,” Sylvain proclaims, his tone inflexible despite the jovial front he’s displaying. “I won’t go down easily, that I can promise. I can’t promise I’ll survive.”

And for the first time since they’ve heard the news from Arianrhod, Dimitri wants to weep. His throat is heavy and bloated with muzzled feelings he’s choking on, staring at Sylvain with eyes unbefitting of a King.

Dimitri knew what was the fate awaiting him; everyone else knew, too.

“I’ve always valued your honesty, Sylvain,” he admits in a low voice.

“If I had been honest all my life, many things would be different now,” Sylvain replies with a shake of his head. “But this is what we’ve been left with. We can hate it all we want, that’s not going to change.”

Sylvain’s battalion is most likely waiting in terse silence for their commander to join them before the signal of the battle resounds. The knights of Gautier have the same sense of duty as those from Fraldarius—they follow their liege and obey orders to serve their country. The closer the Houses are to the crown, the stronger and stiffer the traditions and values are. This is what allowed Faerghus to stand for so long with an army ready to strike back at every attempt of invasion and conquest; this is the legacy of a country bred in strength, devotion and violence. Dimitri still hasn’t found an answer to whether he believes this was the right choice, but this is something he has to do.

“Best of luck to you,” Dimitri says.

Sylvain reaches down and pats him on the shoulder, as if he could treat the King like he’s only another soldier of the army. His face breaks into a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Dimitri appreciates the effort.

“Best of luck to you too, Your Majesty.”

He kicks into his horse’s side and heads down towards the river, the other point from where they will intercept the Imperial army in a pincer attack. Dimitri has utmost faith in Sylvain to do what he can to weaken their enemy until they are barely standing—his fierceness in combat needs not to be proven anymore.

A few steps behind him, Dedue remained still and quiet. Dimitri allows himself to smile.

“Are you afraid, Dedue? This battle will be merciless and gruesome.”

The raindrops are starting to get thicker, getting in their eyes and in their hair. They make Areadbhar glisten and vibrate with even more life.

“No. So long as I am by your side, there is nothing to fear,” Dedue answers with care. “Following you here is my wish, and I will bring you the victory you seek.”

Dimitri turns around, meeting Dedue’s all-too-knowing eyes. He doesn’t deserve such a devoted friend.

“I can always count on you, my friend. We will prevail, to avenge those who have fallen.”

Dedue doesn’t flinch or look away. He drinks in all of Dimitri’s words and nods, his face the calmest he’s ever shown, painting a strange picture among the murmuring of the plains and the increasing tension that’s enveloping them in a tight embrace.

“I will do everything in my power to stop the Empire, no matter the cost,” Dedue swears. “Good luck, Your Majesty.”

“You as well, Dedue.”

The blue flag flies high, and soon it is joined by red flags.

The first to fall is Mercedes. Dimitri shouldn’t have let her come along in this battle; he should have convinced her that she was needed in the rear to heal their injured, instead of allowing her to lead a battalion and create a diversion. Mercedes’s heart wasn’t made to spill blood on such a cruel battlefield. The pegasus knight reporting back to him is barely standing on her feet and it takes all her strength to utter sentence after sentence without losing her train of thought.

It’s too late for Dimitri to start regretting his decisions. This is a point of no return—everything will be decided here, in these plains that bore witness of a battle that was made into legends and tales. The vicious grip around his heart feels like the hands of the ghosts pushing him onward.

The second one is Sylvain. Dimitri didn’t need a messenger to know it; the Lance of Ruin was like a light guiding the soldiers, and as soon as it stopped glowing, there was no doubt about their loss of the river. There was no cry, no final grand speech; Sylvain went down in the same way he’s been living these past few months, tired and disillusioned. Dimitri’s gaze travels to the infinite stretch of sky, where the stars shine and the Goddess watches everything unfolding, a passive spectator to their demise.

“I will see the two of you on the other side...”

Everyone faces death in their own way. Relief, maybe, to be able to stop caring about a war that feels endless; fear, certainly, at the thought of leaving behind unfinished business that other people will have to pick up in their stead; and injustice, most likely, because nobody deserves to die when they are only fighting what they believe in.

Dimitri doesn’t know what he will feel. He watches. He watches the knights falling one by one, until he’s one of the last people remaining standing. He’s waiting for his death that hopefully will take another life along.

“Your Majesty! Sir Dedue has—”

The piercing cry of a creature reaching the sky stops everyone in their tracks. The monstrous form can be seen from all sides of the battlefield, its hide pitch-black and its hands so powerful they make the earth tremble when its fists collide with anything. Dimitri watches, watches, keeps watching, the pit in his stomach swallowing him whole and only leaving behind shards of despair. He closes his eyes, wishing he could erase all the mistakes leading him in what is essentially the graveyard of his friends.

“Dedue, you fool...”

Using the Crest stone to ensure victory; what a fool indeed. Dying as nothing but a beast, stripped of its will and made for killing.

Faerghus is a kingdom of values and honor—there is nothing left of it in this very instant.

Dimitri walks into the mud, heading towards his goal one step at a time. He’s waited long enough, hiding behind the lines of his soldiers. He doesn’t have to go far, though, because blasts of magic make quick work of the creature that Dedue has become, and the cacophony of weapons cut a path for the Emperor to pass through.

Edelgard, despite her short stature, looks down on him. Aymr twitches violently, causing Areadbhar to flare up like they are feeding off each other’s malice. It’s a battle of wills; it’s a battle of beliefs. A King and an Emperor can converse, exchange arguments all they want, they will never be able to see eye to eye—and the proof is right there, when their words fall on deaf ears and all they have left is their bloodthirsty weapons to talk.

Dimitri thrusts his lance with the force of a trebuchet while Edelgard swings her axe like a warrior from the fires of hell. Their fight is ugly, splashing dirt and water and blood all around them, dancing on the music of a macabre tune. Dimitri has stopped paying attention to anything that’s not his enemy, letting his legs carry him in the battle and dodging when required and parrying when necessary. The roars that erupt from his throat sound like they come from someone far too gone into madness.

Even if Areadbhar pierces Edelgard’s armor, even if his attacks are successful, it’s not enough. Aymr is raised, unforgiving, and catches him in the neck.

Mercedes is dead, and so is her battalion. Sylvain won’t be coming to his rescue, and Dedue won’t be there to stay by his side. It’s futile to struggle in the face of death, but Dimitri gathers his last forces to glare at the Emperor, the one responsible for all the tragedies of his life. The blood dripping from his neck and onto the soil is thick and hot, the last part of himself that’s still oozing with warmth.

Wildly, he curses her, spits accusations and refuses to admit defeat. Edelgard’s eyes are full of pity and her very face tainted with that semblance of emotion sends Dimitri into another fit of rage.

Death comes for everyone, inevitable and agonizing. Dimitri snarls and claws at the earth, even as Edelgard cuts even deeper in him. Maybe she’s right and he’s not a normal human. No matter—normal or not, he couldn’t take that woman’s head with him. He swore he would offer it to the dead as a tribute, to appease them, but he failed at even such a menial task.

His eyelids slid shut. It’s cold. Grief and hatred and guilt all hit him at once, and he leaves to this cruel world all his regrets that will be discarded in the depths of the abyss.

Long live the King.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos and comments always appreciated! <3
> 
> / come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kornetable)!


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